warmth {complete}

6||eyes bright, uptight, just girls

The wonderfulness doesn't last, and by the time I arrive home, I'm emotionally drained. I truly don't understand what's happening here, but I'm going to pretend I do and ignore it. My mother smiles at me when I enter the house and nods to the cup of tea on the counter—in other words, she wants to have important discussions with me.

"Honey," she says in a slow, sugared way. "Tell me about school, hmm? I'm concerned with this foot-rubbing."

"It's just Griffin," I say, waving a dismissive hand. "He's chill. Don't worry about it."

"Katherine, I have to worry about it," she sighs, leaning across the counter and clasping my hand in hers so I won't run away. "You've never been social before now"—that's quite an understatement, but okay, Mom— "and I'm very happy for you, but I'm concerned with the why. And the what. I don't know how I feel about random boys rubbing your feet."

"Griffin's not a random boy," I snap defensively. "Mom, he doesn't have any ulterior motives. He just thinks he should rub my feet, since he's my FHEPO boyfriend and all."

"Okay, I get that, honey, and that's great, but do you think he could keep his hands to himself?"

"Not really; he's kind of a touchy person."

She looks like she wants to stomp her foot as she brings her fingers to her temples and rubs. "Okay, but if this gets in the way of your schoolwork, I'm going to have to have a discussion with this Griffin."

"Mom, be cool," I whisper, rolling my eyes. "Foot massages aren't going to get in the way of my schoolwork—God."

And then I stomp away like a moody teenager. (Because I'm a moody teenager.)

***

"And you don't think you're overreacting?"

I'm curled up in one of the three suede chaise lounges in the worker's room at the bookstore, and Mona is pretending to be my therapist. She took a course in psychology when she was in college, so she knows these things.

"No, I don't think I'm overreacting at all." I reach for my phone and she slaps my hand away.

"Don't be rude, Kathy. I'm trying to therapize you."

"Is therapize a word?"

"Yes; I looked it up last week. So, I think the root of your problem is whatever happened with your dad three years ago, yes?"

I shrug. "More or less. But I think it's my hormones. We watched a video in family life, and I think I might just naturally be this weird. I'm going through puberty— "

"No, you're not. Your boobs are fully developed."

"Ew, don't be vulgar."

"I love that word."

"Mmm, I love the word mellifluous. It gives me chills," I inform her, drawing circles on my knees. I'm wearing slouchy boots and skinny jeans; it's very nice to feel the transition between the suede of my boots and the denim of my jeans. Ineffable, really.

Ineffable is another beautiful word.

But I don't say that.

"Mmm," I say again. "I'm not feeling it today."

"That sucks, Katherine."

"You're the worst therapist I've ever met."

"At least I look nice."

She does look nice, actually, in a scratchy-looking wool sweater and cute ankle boots. Her sweater is long enough that the leggings underneath make it look like a dress, and her hair is curled prettily. She looks a little too dolled-up for back-room therapy sessions, so I inquire on that.

"Oh, yes, I'm going on a date tonight," she says, wiggling her eyebrows. "It's gonna be great. We're gonna have some great sex."

"On the first date?" I exclaim. "You trollop."

She giggles and swings her legs over the side of her chaise lounge. I don't know what the designer of this room was smoking when he/she decorated it, but it's very random: pink carpet, maroon walls, three chaise lounges, and a leather sofa. It's very dark and wonderful in here, because I asked for the lights to be dimmed—Mona can't therapize in the light, and I can't be therapized in the light, so it works.

"Ooh, I hope he calls me a trollop," she says, and winks at me.

"Ew. Therapists aren't supposed to regale their patients with what they hope their lovers call them," I sniff, summoning my snobbiest self.

"My lover? Oh, honey, this'll be a one-night-stand. Don't you worry about love."

I think Mona has some secret commitment issues that she's not sharing with me, because she always has dates and hook-ups. I don't think she's ever had a boyfriend in her life, which is ridiculous because she's stunning and intelligent.

(And she can hook you up with some buy-one-get-one-free erotica.)

"I think you'd be an excellent king's mistress; you know?"

I lean over the side of my chaise lounge to look at her face when I say it; she giggles again and slaps me on the arm. I'm considering going back out to the store and actually working, but I'm enjoying all these scandalous talks, so I stay.

"I have a question: Are you a virgin?"

I burst into a fit of giggles at her words because who on Earth would I be having sex with? It's ridiculous, truly. My mind drifts to Griffin and his cute-boy smiles and skinny-muscular arms.

"Of course I'm a virgin, Desdemona," I say, arching my back and doing an awkward handstand-flippy-thing off the side of my lounge. "I don't have any willing sex buddies."

"What about Fifty boy?"

"Fifty boy is cute," I allow, climbing back onto my lounge and running my nail down the back so the suede darkens. "And his name is Griffin, so that's nice."

"Like from Harry Potter?"

"No no no, that's a hippogriff." I smile. "Oh, Buckbeak."

"You're such a nerd."

"Excuse me, but you own a bookstore," I retort, scrunching up my nose at her and rising to my feet. "We must work. Come along, Monie."

She comes along, and we saunter back to the front desk, where at least four elderly women are eyeing us judgmentally. I mentally flip them off, because actually flipping them off would be rude. I smile a wide smile and take the first woman's books from her hands.

"Will this be all?" I ask, glancing down at the laminated Post-It informing me of what to say to customers.

"Do you have any coffee here?" the woman asks, tucking a fraying strand of dyed-blonde hair behind her ear. "I'm all jittery. I need my next fix."

"No, we don't, but there's a Starbucks down the street," I tell her. "That's where I get my fixes."

She laughs a polite laugh, accepts the books, and strides out of the bookstore. I'm fascinated by people with so much confidence that they can joke with strangers, so I watch her for a minute, enamored. The people following her are shy and wink-y, which results in my high spirits lowering and lowering to the point of moody-teenager.

Again.

This is ridiculous. I'm eighteen; I made it through five years of teenager-ism, and I'm only just now getting the moodiness and grumpy days. I blame high school—all that stress and meanness is too much for me to handle.

By the time I leave, I'm in a state of meh. It's not ideal, but it's better than sucky. 

A/N: I don't even know how to write characters that don't like coffee. It's fine, though. Thank you for reading. Mwah.